


Dirty

by shrift



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-11
Updated: 2000-11-11
Packaged: 2018-11-11 05:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11142117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrift/pseuds/shrift
Summary: RayK. Fraser. Dirt. Missing scene from ICBaD.





	Dirty

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Dirty by Shrift

>   
> **TITLE:** DIRTY  
>  **AUTHOR:** Shrift  
>  **E-MAIL:**  
>  **RATING:** PG-13. Language and m/m (BF/RK) slash  
>  implications, although this is technically pre-slash.  
>  **SPOILERS:** BDtH, Eclipse and ICBaD  
>  **SUMMARY:**  
>  RayK. Fraser. Dirt.  
> Missing scene from "I Coulda Been a Defendant".  
>  **ARCHIVING:** Hexwood and my personal archive.  
>  Anyone who is unhinged enough to want this story, please e-mail me.  
>  **DISCLAIMER:** I don't own anything from the dS  
>  universe, not even Fraser and Kowalski. I can't afford to feed them.  
> And I sure as hell don't want to do their laundry.  
> 

* * *

  


  


**DIRTY**   
by Shrift

  
  
  


Fraser's dirty. 

I mean, I should have control over my hormones at my age. I can't even blame it on an adrenaline rush, if I'm going to be honest with myself. I've been a cop for years. Been in my share of fire fights, too, though I'm starting to think I'm going to get more than my fair share while I'm partners with Fraser. Must be the red uniform. I hope Fraser and me never run across any bulls. 

That is so not something I ever thought I'd have to worry about working in the city. 

So, yeah. I should be able to control my hormones. Should be able to keep the little Ray-meister all nice and impartial around the Mountie. Especially since I don't know if Fraser's dance card has ever had a guy's name on it. Especially since we're at a crime scene. Jesus, even my boss is here. 

But...Fraser's dirty. 

He's dirty and _wet_. 

Mud's everywhere on his uniform, really bad on his left side and up his back. He's got these little spots of mud like freckles on his face and neck. He lost his Stetson at some point when he took off after Spender, because his hair is plastered to his skull. Curling over his forehead like a Greek statue, kind of like David. One of those fake pocket flaps is unbuttoned on his chest and that just gets me right where I live. 

Fraser: dirty, wet and unbuttoned. 

Triple X-rated porno right here, folks. Welcome to my universe. Muddy Mountie action. Don't miss the five o'clock matinee. 

I should feel pathetic for getting this juiced up over somebody who's still fully clothed, but come on, it's _Fraser_. All he has to do is stand there and I'm good to go. 

I'm so concentrated on the droplets of water that are dripping off Fraser's mud-spotted earlobe that it takes me a minute to realize he's talking to me. 

"...use the facilities, Ray." 

"Huh?" I say. Another clear droplet drips from Fraser's ear and onto his shoulder. 

Hey, I'm a guy. I get real bright when I'm horny. And the attention span of a gnat if the topic's not related to sex. 

"I believe the cadets have the situation under control for the moment. We should use the facilities at the convention hall," Fraser says. Patiently. 

"Why?" 

Fraser looks confused. Eyes wide, mouth open a little, lips almost pursed. It's a good look on him. "Why, to dry off, of course." 

"Oh." 

Fraser takes that as a yes, I guess, because he nods and starts walking from the road and the crowd of excited, uniformed cadets back towards the woods. Bruce is still standing next to Welsh, looking lost. I follow Fraser. He's going too fast for me. Walking up a hill on wet leaves is a tricky deal all by itself, and my hip is starting to hurt from when I hit the dirt getting out of the path of some speeding bullets. At least I didn't land on the log. 

That's okay, though. The front Fraser view is pretty damn great, but the back Fraser view definitely has its merits. Of course, his uniform is covering all the really good bits. 

Even though my jacket is soaked through and my jeans are starting to chafe in sensitive places and I'm really getting irritated by the feel of water trickling off my scalp and down the back of my neck, I don't want to dry off yet. 

Actually, I just don't want Fraser to dry off and I'm willing to suffer in silence if that's what it takes. 

I want to enjoy this dirty Fraser for a little while before the Mountie gets all clean and combed and buttoned-up. Reminds me of the day I first met him, after he pulled me out of Lake Michigan and went nutbar on Greta Garbo. 

I never really twigged to the appeal of mud wrestling until now, beyond the whole two chicks in bikinis thing. I like those kind of epiphanies. 

"Are you all right, Ray?" 

I realize just as I'm about to run into him that Fraser stopped at the top of the hill to wait for me. The rain is finally letting up.  I fall into place beside Fraser and we start down the hill. 

"I'm peachy." 

"Peachy," Fraser says. 

"Yeah, peachy. Why?" 

Fraser's looking confused again. I'd tease him about looking like a guppy, only he doesn't look like a guppy like that and I don't want him to stop doing that thing with his mouth. "Why peachy?" 

"No, Fraser. Why do you ask if I'm all right?" 

"Well, Ray, you're walking at a slower pace than is your wont." 

"My want?" I say. 

"Wont," Fraser says. "Your habitual or usual pace." 

I'm in lust with a walking dictionary. Great. 

Wait. That's not fair to Fraser. He's not a dictionary: he's a freaking encyclopedia. 

"Wet jeans, Fraser," I tell him. "They're not easy to walk in, my friend." 

"Ah." 

If I hadn't been looking at his face, I would've missed Fraser's blue eyes flickering down to look at the jeans that were sticking to me like that lady's skirt in those static-cling Downy commercials. And that would've been a damned shame. 

Now I'm really happy that I didn't stop at home to put on a clean pair of jeans, because I'm wearing the tightest pair that I own. I get to put another little mark in the 'Fraser likes me like _that_ ' column, right next to the friendly pat-down Fraser gave my lower half this morning when my cell phone woke us up. I've been watching for those hints. 

Okay, so I've been digging for those hints like a pig for truffles. I'm not proud. At least not when it comes to Fraser. 

I mean, I get hunches, sure. But a hunch isn't enough to go on when it comes to figuring out if it's a good idea to tell the partner who is fast becoming your best friend that you want to suck on his tongue. 

And then there's the fact that my dick could be dressing up like a hunch. Been known to happen. 

"Shit!" 

Fraser's hand is on my arm as I start to slide on some wet leaves. He grabs at my elbow, but my jacket is totally wet and slick and his hand slips almost all the way up to my shoulder. Fraser swings himself in front of me and grabs at my other arm, pulling me into his chest while I try not to fall on my ass. 

Bunched wet clothes are as uncomfortable as hell, but seeing as how I'm now wedged between Fraser's legs, I think I can ignore that little problem. 

"All right?" he asks. I like the way Fraser's voice vibrates in his chest. 

I know I must be grinning, but Fraser can't see my face since my nose is buried in muddy, red wool. Dirty Fraser smells kind of...good. Earthy. A little sweaty. A lot wet wool, which I'm also willing to ignore. "Still peachy, Fraser." 

Fraser backs up slowly enough that I put another mark on the positive side of the 'go on, jump the Mountie, you know you want to' column. When he finally lets go of my arms, Fraser scratches his eyebrow with his thumb. Leaves a smudge of mud behind on his skin. 

And he just looks so...Fraser-ish. 

My guts do this little jig and twist and I'm reminded, not exactly unpleasantly, that I'm more than in lust with this guy. I like Fraser. A lot. 

"You have a..." Fraser says. 

"A what?" 

Fraser starts to lift his arm, then stops. He's not real touchy-feely, but I'm working on that. I waggle my eyebrows at him. Fraser cocks his head and then reaches out anyway. His hand is on my face, on my cheekbone. It's not a big hand, but it's a nice hand as hands go. And since it's a hand that is connected to Fraser, I'd like it even if it had six fingers or warts or something. Not that Fraser would ever have warts. 

Fraser pulls his hand back and shows me the mud on his fingers. "I'm afraid the state of my uniform has contributed to your dishabille." 

"Sure. Okay. Whatever." 

"Well, dishabille is--" 

I hold up my own slightly muddy hand and my bracelet clinks. "I know what the word means, Fraser." 

Fraser gives me a funny look, like he can't quite figure out how I wouldn't know 'wont' but I know a word like 'dishabille'. It's not my fault he has these funky Canadian vowels. 

I'm not dumb. I know sometimes I sound like it, but I'm not dumb. 

Not that I think Fraser thinks I'm dumb. I'm just saying. 

Fraser clears his throat. "Well, then. Shall we?" 

"We shall." 

We start walking again as if we didn't just have a 'moment'. I'm not paying too much attention to where I put my feet, because I wouldn't mind getting wedged against Fraser again. I mean, it's kind of a chick move to stumble so a guy can catch me, but whatever works, you know? 

The convention hall, when we get to it, is pretty much empty. Everyone's out by the dirt road, hanging out by the black and whites like it's a block party. I put on some speed and get to the door first, opening it for Fraser. 

"After you." 

"Thank you kindly, Ray." 

"You're very welcome, Fraser." 

I get a kick out of this politeness crap sometimes. It's probably instinctive for Fraser, but it's not for me. It's been a long time since I had someone to...play with, like that. Stella stopped being playful a long, long time ago. 

Playful. Playing with Fraser. Oh, god. Come play in _my_ sandbox, Mr. Constable, sir. 

I should really figure out what exactly I feel for The Stella since I appear to be flirting with a very male Mountie, but it's not like I'm going to suck Fraser off in the bathroom anytime soon. 

Even if just dropping to my knees and going for it sounds like the best idea I've had in a long time. I want to know how Fraser tastes. 

Okay, I need to back away slowly from that thought because my jacket isn't exactly long enough to conceal the evidence. That and getting a boner in these wet jeans would just suck. I'm getting chafed as it is. 

I don't know how Fraser does it, but he finds the bathroom like somebody drew him a map with landmarks. I'd ask him about it, but he'd probably come back with some junk about architecture and the common placement of plumbing. Not that I don't get some twisted kick out of Fraser's explanations. I like watching his mouth, too. 

The bathroom's pretty clean with bright fluorescent lights, and it doesn't smell rank. I almost feel bad for dripping mud on the minty-colored tile. 

"I should've known," I say. "No paper towel." 

Fraser looks at the stalls. "There's always toilet tissue." 

"I am not walking around looking like I got TPed, Fraser." 

Oh, god yes. There's the confused look again. I'm on a roll, today. "Teepeed?" Fraser asks. 

"TP. Toilet paper. It's fuzzy, flimsy. We'll look like we had an accident at a paper factory, Fraser. I don't think so. No, we're using the dryer." 

Fraser's already moving towards the dryer, but he's just got to complain first. "Using only the hand dryer will take a significant amount of time, Ray." 

I hit the button and angle the dryer so the heat hits Fraser in the face. He blinks. "We got time, Fraser. That is, unless you have a hot date, or something." 

"I do not, as you say, have a hot date tonight, Ray. I mean simply that Elaine's graduation ceremony should recommence soon and I believe that she would appreciate our presence." 

"You think so, huh?" 

"Yes, I do." 

I grin a little and strip off my jacket. It's so wet that I wring it out over the sink and dirty dribbles of water go down the drain. When I turn around, Fraser's kind of brushing at his serge, like he's trying to get the mud off. 

"Don't," I blurt out. 

"Don't what?" 

"Keep the mud," I say. "It's, uh, it's a good look on you." 

Look, ma. Bad Ray took possession of my mouth and he won't give it back to Good Ray, the one who doesn't want to jump his partner's bones. No, really. 

"Really?" Fraser's saying. He's got this little smile on his face and I wonder what it means. 

"Yeah, you know." I shrug and uncrinkle my jacket. I hope it's not ruined. I don't have a lot of clothes that could remotely be considered nice. 

"Actually, I don't." 

"You don't what?" 

Fraser aims the dryer at me. He's still smiling. "I don't know why mud is a good look on me." 

Oh, shit. Where's Good Ray when I need him? 

I duck down to dry my hair. To hide my face. Because I'm pretty sure I won't be able to keep my expression from saying something about my newly discovered dirty Fraser fetish. And honestly, I'm not sure I'm really ready to pounce on Fraser. I want to. Hell, I really fucking want to, but I don't know if I _should_. 

What a time for me to realize that there are consequences to my actions. Jeez. Mom and Pop would be so proud. 

"Well," I finally say. "You, uh, look like a little kid who's been making mud pies. Never seen you like that, is all." 

There. That was...innocent enough. I think. 

"Ah," Fraser says. I can see out of the corner of my eye that he's stopped brushing off the mud. 

Victory, thy name is Ray. 

"Speaking of children," Fraser says. 

I look up and pass him the dryer. "What about 'em?" 

"If I were a betting man -- I'm not, but if I were, I would bet that you were an easy child to discipline." 

"How the hell did you know that, Fraser?" 

What is he, psychic I mean, I'm sure I wasn't an easy kid to raise, but my parents always seemed to know exactly what I hated worst. Maybe because I yelled it. Loudly. 

"You mentioned earlier at the station that you hate being sent to your room, Ray," Fraser's saying, like he knows the secrets of the universe and if I just listen long enough, he'll reveal them to me. "I would extrapolate from that statement that being sent to your room would have served as sufficient deterrent to overly rambunctious behavior." 

Have I mentioned yet that I love the way he talks, even if I'll never admit it to him out loud? 

"That's good, Fraser. Now tell me what I had for breakfast this morning." 

Fraser's smile gets a little bigger, almost turning into a grin. "Coffee." 

"That's creepy," I say. 

"It's simple deductive logic, Ray." 

"I'd better watch what I say from now on." 

"Oh, I don't believe that's necessary," Fraser says. He's almost done drying his hair and he finger combs it without looking in the mirror. It's wilder than normal, kind of fluffy but in a not-bad way. 

I'm still wearing wet pants and I think there are puddles forming in my boots, but Fraser's not de-rumpling himself. He's staying dirty because I asked him to, and I think I'm starting to love him for it. 

I just shake my head and grin at him, and Fraser seems to get that we're good, because he's still got that little smile on his face. 

And it's enough. For now, it's enough.   
  
  
  


the end

* * *

Go to Shrift's Due South Fan Fiction at www.slashcity.org/~shrift  



End file.
